Sexuality

Some part of me insists on being ashamed that sex and my sexuality have played such a major role in my life. I wonder if it’s simply the fact that I’m a woman and our sexuality is hushed and muted unless it’s for someone else’s pleasure or perhaps it’s something more specific to me than that. At seventeen I had a yeast infection that I was so sure was Trichomoniasis. Scared, I insist my mom take me to the doctor only for her to give me a dismissive “you can’t even have that without having sex”.

Now, I will grant that I was an ugly duckling. I would have likely been equally surprised, if I were my parent, to find out that someone had been willing to fuck me. You know how teenage boys are, though – hormones racing and all. Anything for release. Even me. “I know that mom, and I think I have it.” Please tell me you’ll get the hint without me having to directly tell you. Yes. Sex. I’ve had it. I was 15 the first time. We’re not going to have this conversation right now, are we?

I’m twenty-eight now and I’ve still never received “the talk”. I wonder, sometimes, if it would have changed things. I was due for it around the age of 13. That’s about the age that I discovered the thrill of sexual attention, of being wanted. Looking back, it was also the age to realize that I didn’t have to want in order to enjoy the satisfaction of being desired. It was the early stages of feeling out of my power. Maybe my shame surrounding my sexuality stems from the fact that I was secretly exploring it as the people closest to me boldly assumed it wasn’t even in the realm of possibilities.

Twenty-one was about the age I started truly embracing myself as a “sexual being”. Not enough to say that term without putting quotation marks, but enough to be completely naked while having sex. Definitely enough to ask Isaac what the chances are that he’ll let me kneel in front of him, mouth agape, with electrodes stuck to my thighs and a powerbox in his hands. Enough to act the part as long as I’m not trying to say it. Words can sometimes be a struggle for me like that. I would have done great in silent films.

I jokingly encourage having a “ho-phase” because embracing my sexuality, for me rather than for others, was what started me on the path of realizing that I could be and have more than I thought. Like I said, I was an ugly duckling as a young’n and I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t gotten to me. I grew up convinced that relationships were better existing behind screens where I could filter what parts of me were seen. I didn’t dare approach them in person, until I did.

When someone turns away from a ho-phase, I suggest hanging out at home in lingerie and learning to love yourself. It kind of works the same way, acceptance. I would get naked with people whose opinions didn’t count. Ultimately, I learned that even if they did matter that I would have been in the clear because by the time they decided to get naked with me they already decided to look past what I kept telling myself was unacceptable and flawed. At home, alone, in lingerie, I would learn to accept and find the beauty in those same parts.

I would say twenty-four, maybe twenty-five is when things really started getting good, though. I was comfortable. My body became just a body and with that comfort came the ability to utilize it without fear. Finding myself in bed with a girl let me break the rule of submissiveness that I had held for myself, furthering my comfort. Embracing all of it, becoming whole, brought on confidence that I didn’t know was possible.

Now, I’m not sure that I’d suggest a ho-phase, even jokingly. I think it’s a bit more important to consider what you’re putting in your body than I once did. I do, however, strongly encourage getting acquainted with your personal sexuality and understanding that it’s okay if it looks different than that of others. It goes hand and hand with our creativity – no one will have the same way of expressing themselves, nor should they.

At twenty-eight, I can say no to sex when I don’t want it without worrying that it will make me seem less deserving of love. I can express my want for sex without worrying that I’m coming across as too vulnerable. I can meet someone while I’m out rather than surfing the web hoping to pick the perfect one. When he pulls back from a kiss I don’t question if I did something wrong anymore, but I know it’s to see just how right things are going, so I lean in.

Some part of me feels like I should be ashamed that growing into my sexuality is one of the accomplishments that I’m most proud of. I don’t ignore that part, but I reassure it that we don’t have to be scared anymore.

Much love, until next time.